


Favorite, Lovely Stranger

by agentlithium



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Sort of happy ending, This is really sad, everything I touch turns to hurt, i wanted this to be trashy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8073370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentlithium/pseuds/agentlithium
Summary: It gets worse every minute.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Любимый, прекрасный, чужой](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10020455) by [Dafna536](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dafna536/pseuds/Dafna536)



> Well, this is the first thing I've done since a big ol fic I wrote got deleted and I went into a something of a great writing depression. I think it turned out pretty well. Huge thank you to my beta reader http://butterfliesandresistance.tumblr.com she is an absolute gem ✨

The return to reality was harsh and immediate. Jim was standing outside the bedroom door. He couldn’t bear to look in there, much less face what he had done. From inside, he heard weak panting and the occasional sharp sniffle. Oswald was crying. Jim listened without a word. Shameful, a former soldier and policeman, being such a coward. He knew he wasn’t brave. He formerly wore a mask of false courage, and he eventually grew to accept this, but after all that he had done, with all of his glaring imperfections, he was never prepared to acknowledge that under his tight suits and behind tired, azure eyes, there lived an animal. Vicious, selfish, and carnal. It had Jim in a chokehold. It took him from lover to lover, pulled triggers, and stole his voice to speak in his place. It was a manifestation of the denial, the stress, the need to be perfect. Unlike the other monsters he dealt with on a daily basis, this one couldn’t be killed. Jim fought it the best he could. All he was able to do was to pretend it didn’t exist. It rarely reared its ugly head as of late, though Jim’s decreasing morals seemed to appease it. However, tonight, the animal tore its way out from the back of his mind and took him over.

The encounter was surreal. None of it felt as if it had actually happened. Jim still thought he was dreaming. He still hoped he was dreaming. Another nightmare that would just have him waking up in a cold sweat, beyond grateful that this wasn’t real. The unexpected visitor who reeked of alcohol was never at his door. He never asked for what he did, to be  _ used, _ and Jim, under the same influence, never obliged. He didn’t tie him down. He didn’t leave hideous bite marks on his neck. He didn’t cut him with his own pocket knife. The whole time, there were strings pulling him along. Something beyond him dragged the blade across trembling flesh, and only forced it deeper when he drew blood. Something else hissed filthy things into the ear of his submissive partner. Something buried inside him was to blame for his debauched actions. Something, whatever it was, had fucked Oswald Cobblepot without mercy.

_ Oh, shut up. _

Jim sighed heavily. He had to calm down, and confront the situation. His perception was still clouded, though he believed he was slowly sobering up. His hand itched to reach for the bottle the closer he got to absolute lucidity. He had to laugh at himself. He was turning to booze as an escape very frequently in the passing months. Lee never liked it when he drank. A pang of self-reproach hit him. It was fleeting, the initial feeling. He grappled for anything to occupy his consciousness, anything that would prevent him from falling into that hopeless abyss again. He knew why she left him, there was nothing he could do about it, and that was the end of it. He had something else to attend to now, anyway. Another deep inhale.  _ Fuck. _

Gradual, conflicted steps lead him into his chamber. He loitered in the doorway, subtle notes of fear in his heart. Oswald, of course, was where Jim had left him. His hands bound behind him with one of Jim’s ties. He laid there, body twisted from when his strength gave out earlier. Jim walked closer, and Oswald didn’t move. In the dim lamplight, he was shuddering. Incarnadine drooled lazily from shallow wounds along his shoulderblades. His skin, a soft ivory, was littered with bruises, blood, and the like. The ruin he was left in, so evident in the gentle glow. Jim hesitantly reached for his bindings, and began to pull at the knot.

“Are you okay?”

Oswald paused before responding.

“Yes.” It was difficult to hear him. He spoke so quietly. This was the first time he wasn’t running his mouth in Jim’s presence. Once Jim had worked Oswald free, the skeletal figure drew his arms to his chest. His wrists were a deep red.

“Do you want me to get you anything?” Guilt forced these words past his lips. 

Oswald shook his head. He then curled into a tighter ball, as did Jim’s stomach.  _ What did he do? _ Oswald wasn’t unfamiliar with abuse. The lacerations upon his back lay between healing scars. Small, round burns from another time, a boss or perhaps, another lover, were far from new. And he asked for this. He threw himself through the door. His shaking fists clutched Jim’s white shirt, pulled desperately at his clothes, pleading for him to do his worst. Whiskey-wet lips met ones that tasted of expensive wine and ash. It was almost hungry, if either party could stir up enough energy to convey such a feeling. There was lust, but no emotion, or that was what he tried to convince himself of. It was only the work of Jim’s body and a considerable amount of suppressed anger. 

For the other, it was an entirely different experience. He had hidden his infatuation for his unappreciative beloved since the first time they had touched. He romanticized the memory of being thrown around and threatened by the detective, though it left such a revolting taste upon his tongue. Putting his life in the hands of an unfortunate creature he saw only through rose-colored glasses, and why? His moral compass was surely deviating. Oswald often wondered if they were both put back on that pier again, staring down the polluted waters of their city’s harbour, would his life be spared once more? A moment had occurred as Jim loomed over him, exposed, restrained where he remembered who Oswald was: a criminal who nearly ruined his career on multiple occasions, a freak who would never give him a second of peace, a cockroach that wouldn’t stay dead. That was when he reached for the knife from the pile of discarded clothing. He was out of Oswald’s sight, but his presence was soon sensed and Oswald spoke up.

_ ‘You can cut me, if you want.’ _

Jim could have dropped the blade, but he only hesitated, then flipped it open. He was no sadist, but he had to hold back a growl at the idea of causing that little psycho some well deserved pain. What followed was rough, feverish, and obscene. Jim pulled Oswald’s hair, scratched him, bit him. But no matter what, Oswald only cried for more, even when Jim knew he wasn’t enjoying it. He looked like he was in absolute agony, but he wouldn’t allow Jim to stop. A rare feeling of pity regarding the mobster formed in his stomach. Jim pushed him onto his back on a whim. He had never seen him looking so vulnerable. He feebly cried out confession after confession between teary-eyed groans and pleas. Oswald said that he would do anything for him, that he always wanted this, that Jim was the only person he trusted. He said that his heart would always belong to Jim. It was either the alcohol or the heat of the moment that forced such things out of him, it had to be, but his pale eyes, reddening as he teetered on the verge of sobbing, were so fucking honest. He spoke like he had a gun to his head and this was his last chance to share what weighed so heavily upon him. What had Jim feeling sick was how little he could reciprocate.

Almost immediately after finishing, Jim was back in his boxers and fleeing the scene. He needed to breathe, to ask himself,  _ what now? _ He wouldn’t describe the event that took place as passionate, or anything pertaining to the idea that it was at all an act of love, at least, not in his opinion. This did eventually drive him back to Oswald’s side, though he had nothing to say.

“I’m sorry.”

“Hm?”

“I may have stained your sheets.” Oswald turned onto his stomach to hide his face in the pillow, and reveal the blood on the bed.

_ God damn it. God fucking damn it. _

“It’s okay,” Jim muttered, taking off to the bathroom to acquire a towel. He soaked it in water, and returned quickly. He was about to hand it to Oswald, but decided to spare him the hassle of trying to reach the more awkward spots on his back. Sitting cautiously on the side of the bed, he gently dabbed at the crimson gore that was smeared across a fair porcelain complexion. He momentarily withdrew when he heard the man beneath him wince.

“Thank you,” came Oswald’s hoarse response. 

Out of everything that happened that night, this was by far the most intimate. He had never been tender in his handling of Oswald, nor did he ever have reason to be. He’s a murderous sociopath and Jim is a cop, but this certainly made him question some things. His mental state was one of those things. Oswald wasn’t portrayed as anything other than what he was in Jim’s eyes. However, seeing him, naked and defenseless, did give off the image of an injured young bird who had lost his feathers and broken his wings. He made no sarcastic remarks. He couldn’t even muster up a smile. Cleaning up the mess Jim had made of his relationship with Oswald would be far more arduous than being rid of the physical evidence, which either disappeared in the dark colour of the towel or would fade out in a matter of weeks. Professionalism between the two would be impossible to achieve once again. Jim’s gut twisted.

“I’m, uh, I’m sorry if I was too rough with you. You could’ve told me to stop,” he finally spoke up after a horrible stretch of silence. Oswald, much to his surprise, actually chuckled.

“I told you, I’ve wanted this for far too long to back out once things got a bit rough. Besides, you didn’t want to stop, did you?” His words slurred slightly from his inebriation. A sleepy grin painted its way across his face when Jim was unable to find an answer in his defense. Soon, the blood had stopped flowing from most of the bigger gashes. This was when Jim had to swallow back every sentiment stirring within him. He stood up.

“So, do you want me to call you a cab, or could your driver pick you up, or,” he trailed off. Oswald turned back onto his side. He was still smiling, but he was close to tears again.

“You have done a lot for me, Jim Gordon. Tonight, you gave me more than I could ever ask of you. You showed me more of you than you have ever showed anyone else. And though it did cause me pain, I couldn’t be more grateful for the time spent with you and for your patience with my behaviour this evening. I really shouldn’t be asking you for anything more, but you know me as a selfish man, so I must say, please, just… let me stay. Even just a few more minutes,” he said, tone steady, but he had difficulty keeping it this way. It was clear that he was fighting to remain composed. As sad as this was, Jim was not going to crack that easily. Oswald was a master of manipulation. He was playing the pity card, and Jim refused to fall for it.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’ll call a cab—”

“Please, don’t make me go,” he cut him off, speaking above a whisper for the first time. 

His voice was caught in his throat, and he struggled not to cry again. The way he looked at the beautiful blond - that was most assuredly not looking at him the same way - was hard on the both of them. The expression on his face clearly showed that he was aware of how insignificant he was in the life of his only love. He knew full well how much Jim regretted this. He would sooner pray to be struck dead than willingly be with a violent, psychotic, megalomaniac. Who could blame him? 

But if they both had to be drunk for Oswald to feel wanted by him, he would take it. He would take the emotional and physical abuse, he would do anything to please his object of affection, then he would leave in a dignified fashion with his head held high as he fucking rots inside, because this was the height of his miserable existence. He would keep everything a secret, not only so Jim could save face, but to hide his own weakness. His thought process was far from coherent, and he would forget all of this by the time he was vomiting up the poison that filled his body come tomorrow morning. He would only remember what the marks on his back told him, and the crushing emptiness that flooded into him when he was inevitably shown the door. In a last ditch effort, he decided he had to beg. After what he did for Jim tonight, he knew that was what he liked.

“I know this meant nothing to you, and what it means to me is nothing you care about, but I’ll be at your beck and call, no favours owed or words spoken, or I’ll leave you alone from here on in, if that’s what you like. I’ll take the couch, hell, I’ll sleep on the floor. I’ll be gone before you wake up. Please, I just… I don’t think I can…” 

He fell silent, seeming to have lost his voice. His mouth, still open, hoping for a miracle, was unfruitful in its search for another false promise. Neither believed that Oswald could bring himself to stay away from Jim. He was so very pitifully in love with the kindness that was now shrouded by coldness and cruelty deep inside an old, decaying soul. The contrast between the two was almost humourous. Jim was Gotham’s golden boy who did everything he could to conceal all immorality. Oswald was a villain, evil to the bone, but his heart, as envenomed and befouled as it was, longed for a chance to start again. 

He would then have his mother and his life returned to him. He would be an oblivious citizen. Mother would have been taken by age eventually, leaving peacefully and exactly when her time had come. He would most likely die at the hand of some street urchin with a bloody nose and an unscratchable itch, who was looking for a few sorry dollars. If luck would be in his favor, he would live out his days, another boring brick in the wall, without a care and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t be as alone as he was now. This, of course, was a fantasy. He lived every day in pain, and that’s how he was to die. The closest he could get to that ideal existence was in the time he spent crawling to Jim Gordon’s thankless side, pretending that the brutal handling he received was out of love.

“Oswald,” Jim exhaled. He was exhausted with the man curled up upon his bed. He wanted to turn his back, and show Oswald the door. It was what he deserved, after all. Showing sympathy for the notorious  _ Penguin _ was nearly impossible. He falsified things for a living. Only crocodile tears spotted the pillow. Of course.

“Jim,” Oswald grabbed his wrist. He almost jerked away, but the grip on his arm, though so loose, anchored him in place.  _ Sure, that’s all that’s keeping you here. _

“Have I ever lied to you?”

Jim scoffed, then halted. He began to recall the years since their meeting. Each time he believed he had an example, he realized that Oswald had not technically lied to him. He had, occasionally, withheld the truth, but he had never willingly deceived him. How many other men would be able to say that? He was a cheat and a fabricator by nature. Misinformation was like an ancient tongue he spoke, as only he knew the meaning of what he said. He undoubtedly could have done it, played Jim Gordon like a harp, ruined his career, betrayed him as Oswald had been so many times before himself but, he didn’t. Jim ran a hand over his mouth. He made his decision.

“Get up.”

Oswald’s voice broke, along with his heart.

“Jim—”

“Now, please.” 

Oswald looked so hurt. His lip quivered, showing the battle he had to fight in order not to break down crying once again. His feeble arms pushed him up. His whole body hurt. He didn’t want to waste any more of Jim’s time, though. It was silly of him to even think that he could catch the ever-distant gaze of his dearest. This night would be only a gauzy memory that inspired nausea, if anything, in him. His feet touched the cool hardwood while his bones creaked with his stretching limbs. Gradually, he crossed the room, picking up his clothes along the way. Every time he bent over, the cuts on his back were drawn open. He would let out a strangled sob each time, snivel, and press on. Jim never addressed him. He pulled the dirty duvet cover off of the comforter. The blood came through in a few places, but it was nothing drastic. He turned his head to Oswald, who was trying to clumsily put on his white undershirt.

“Where are you going?” he asked. Oswald stopped. Confusion left him speechless.

“You told me to… You said…”

“Listen, do you promise you’ll be gone by morning? I won’t have to force you out?” Jim maintained a certain level of icy indifference. It would have normally wounded Oswald, but he was too surprised and excited at what was being hinted at.  _ He could stay _ .

“Of course, I promise. Thank you.” He dropped the clothes on his arm. Jim stepped over to a set of drawers.

“You want something to wear then? So you don’t keep bleeding all over my bed.”

“Yes, um, please.” Oswald nodded. Jim dug through one of the drawers until his hand pulled out a blue t-shirt with some sort of faded crest on the front.

“Here. I don’t care if you get this dirty,” he said, tossing the shirt in Oswald’s direction. By the grace of some otherworldly force, he actually caught it. It effortlessly slipped over him, and fit like a dress. His ghoulish frame was so different from Jim’s, as Jim would very likely fill out the garment perfectly. Still cautious,  _ perhaps Jim might change his mind _ , Oswald stumbled to the bed, and gestured to it vaguely.

“Can I really stay here? With you?” he sputtered out with an embarrassing level of bashfulness.

“If you want to,” Jim tousled his golden hair lazily. He wasn’t quite sure why he was allowing Oswald to stay. The horrible guilt, of course, but maybe something more. He didn’t really care. He just wanted to sleep, so he could disregard the clear and uncomfortable uncertainty, and blame it all on the heavy drinking, if he even remembered this upon waking. Oswald stood, swaying like a flower in a breeze, not taking a step further.

“Are you sure?” The question was an impulsive response to the rejection that was such a common feature in his life. Jim wasn’t a joking man, but he had his impulses too. He probably just let Oswald hear what he wanted. He could push him away again. He always did.  _ I just want to get close to you— _

“Yes, but if you ask me that again, I’m kicking you out,” Jim huffed with a roll of his eyes. 

He fell onto the mattress, and hauled the sheets over him. Without another word, he turned his back to Oswald. The room went quiet again. Oswald was in a daze as his body subconsciously clambered onto the bed. He squirmed his way under the covers. Could he even sleep? He was certainly fatigued, drained from the enormous stresses brought on him tonight, but his pulse was racing. A quick glance to the digital clock on the nightstand.  _ 3:47 AM.  _ Both had work in the morning. He had to hold back the whisper of an apology he almost let slip because of the late hour. An involuntary chill took him over for a moment, as most of his form remained bare. The warmth radiating from the muscular shape next to him was so very tempting. It drew him close with the alluring promise of serenity and consolation for his anxieties and the intimacy he craved. His judgement was clouded enough for him to throw pride to the wind and reach for, what would be in any other case, the unachieveable.

Jim tensed under the cold touch brought down on his stomach. An arm, cadaverous and pallid, snaked around him. Bony knees pressed into the base of his spine and sweat-moistened hair to his neck. He could feel rhythmic breathing on his skin, goosebumps developing all over him. He wanted to send his shoulder directly into Oswald's pointed nose, but suppressed the urge. Fighting this would create nothing but unnecessary conflict. Oswald had calmed down, his tears were only drying memories on his freckled cheeks. The contact was somewhat welcome to Jim, to both of them. They shared a welcoming heat, melting together as they slipped away from consciousness. 

Oswald’s muscles relaxed to a point where he couldn’t even pull the corner of his thin lips into a faint image of the joy doing a fancy two-step in his gut. A funny feeling, when you’re so happy your mind is racing, and your every bone cries out to dance out your giddiness before you explode. He had almost forgotten where he was, who he was, everything about his life. He wasn’t being held in a tender embrace by any means, but he could still pretend he was laying beside his lover in a bed he was welcome in. Perhaps, in another world, they had made love by the hazy moonlight, and whispered rosewater sentiments into each other’s ears until sleep. In another world, yes. For now, Oswald was to live with Jim even permitting him to spend the night here. A delusion, if it weren’t happening right then.

Jim wished he could have said that falling asleep was an agonizing process, that Oswald Cobblepot, so much as touching him, was nauseating. He wished that he was restless and appalled and enraged at the audacity Cobblepot had to force his way into Jim’s bed. He wished his feelings toward Oswald were like concrete: unforgiving, painful, but absolute, like they had been before. It could never be that way anymore. Everything that happened leading up to this had taken a jackhammer to his rock-solid wall of certitude and left him exposed. No, it wasn’t like this at all. It was like a rat, gnawing one small hole into the foundation, only the hole got bigger and bigger, and one rat became dozens, and by the time he realized the disaster he was faced with, it was far from something that could be ignored. 

Thinking about this any longer than a few minutes gave him a furious headache. He was honestly grateful that sleep took him so quickly. An easy escape from this awful self-flagellation . He would be forced to remember this again when he would inevitably be sought out by Oswald after this, and he would have to overcome the irrational anger that bubbled within him that he now knew was directed at himself for being such a fool. Overanalyzing the spikes in his nervous system when he saw the skinny little shit smiling, smirking, frowning, gaping,  _ staring _ at him. He was mad that he couldn’t be indifferent, and he lashed out because of it. He spat empty threats out of insecurity.  _ Cowardly _ .

Jim had tossed about in the night, but he soon found peace with Oswald’s attenuated anatomy lined up with his own, the strong features of his face buried in Jim’s brawny chest. A possessive thigh was resting between his, and it left their legs comfortably entangled. They shared the same glorious, dreamless somnolence throughout the passing hours. Both lead different lives with different stresses that suffocated them endlessly. One night without a single thought was heaven for the two. While it would be vehemently denied by most, they were almost identical in many senses. There never was an easy way out. They would sooner walk over a mile long trail of glass than simply face a problem responsibly. They also knew all of their stresses were of their own faults and both turned to their respective vices to combat these. They shared all of this and now they shared the events of tonight. A new secret for each of them. Oswald now knew Jim was a sadist, a drinker, and a dangerously volatile paragon of the All-American dream. Jim now knew that Oswald was an emotional drunk, a con artist, and, though borderline indestructible anatomically, an unbelievably fragile glass figurine of a man under his ghostly shell. He could take the bruises and the lacerations and the broken bones, but God forbid he met a verbal pummeling, especially from the last man on earth that he trusted. Oswald hoped he was not going to regret revealing his weaknesses to Jim. Jim hoped for the same.

It would be impossible to tell if the sun did rise that day. Charcoal cloud cover, heavy showers. Not uncommon in Gotham, but considerably worse than the usual dismal weather. It was far from a decent hour to be awake, ages before anyone had to be anywhere, yet Oswald was already stirring. Ever the gentleman, he respected the request that he was to disappear along with the sunrise. He would have to be swift if he was to leave without waking Jim. He didn’t even have a chance to attempt at squirming out of the grasp that held him, when it tightened suddenly. He hissed Jim’s name softly to see if it was a deliberate gesture. Surprisingly, he got a reaction.

  
“Shut up,” was the response. Half grumbled into the pillow, but very clear. He was not about to be let go. Jim was very strong, even in sleep, so escape wouldn’t be possible. He didn’t want to escape, anyways. If Jim were to rouse hours later, hungover and enraged at the disobedience Oswald exercised by overstaying his welcome, he would have an excuse. Jim was already comatose by the time Oswald was back to where he was before. The rain outside slammed furiously against the windowpanes. It lulled Oswald’s mind into a sleepy serenity. He was soon off in that other, far-distant universe. A universe where he was loved, not feared, and he was listening to the heartbeat of someone who loved him. He was unaware that this universe and our own had begun to overlap, starting with Jim whispering in silent prayer that he didn’t want Oswald to leave.


End file.
